When I was in high school, I read
the book Black Like Me by John Howard
Griffin . The book is a true story of a
white man who decided he wanted to see what it was like to live as a black man
in the South in the early 1960’s. He would enter shops or apply for a job as a
white man one day, then come back the next day as a black man, with skin dyed,
but everything else the same, and note how differently he was treated. The book
had a profound affect on me. A white girl growing up in Whitefish Bay, I
entered high school never having had a black friend, or for that matter,
without even having had a conversation with a black person. Black Like Me made me think about the
fact I was white—something I had never given much thought to before. And in
thinking about being white, I also began to wonder what it would be like to be
black.
For
the several weeks it took me to read, and then re-read the book, I found myself
walking around the halls of Dominican High School, imagining that my skin was
brown rather than white and that my hair was dark and tightly braided, instead
of blondish-brown and long and wavy. I imagined myself with the strong muscular
arms and legs of a sprinter rather than with my own skinny long-distance
frame. I looked at my tight-knit group
of friends and wondered if I would be as close to them if I were black, and I
looked at some of the black kids I didn’t know and wondered if we’d hang out
together if I weren’t white.
Looking
back at my 1985-self from my current vantage point— I believe now that even as
a 15-year-old, God was at work in my life, helping me to begin to build
perspective that I would need to someday become the mother of two daughters of
color.
Jamie,
our adopted five-year-old is of Puerto Rican descent and has tan skin with a
rosy undertone. Teenasia, our seven-year-old foster daughter is African American and
has skin the color of coffee without cream.
The
entrance of these two girls into our family have helped me to once again walk
around, as I did in high school, with an eye for the color of those around me.
In
mothering these two girls, I’ve noticed that the expression being “colorblind”
when used to explain that someone is not judging someone based on their skin
color, is an expression used almost exclusively by white people. If you are
black (or light brown or tan)-- or are
the parent of someone who is one of these shades, you immediately realize that
you are never colorblind. I am always noticing color. I understand that no harm
is meant by the phrase, but it doesn’t speak to the fact that there is still
tremendous disparity in our nation between whites and those of color. For those
who aren’t peach, color does still matter.
While
we’d like to think that our TV shows, our ads, our toys and books represent all
children, my experience is that while I consistently see children the color of
my white sons and frequently see children pictured who are the color of Jamie,
I rarely see kids in newspaper ads or on TV who are the color of Teenasia. The message seems to be that white and light
brown is fine, but dark brown-- not so much. And Teenasia is noticing. We have several
picture books with black girls as main characters. Upon starting one of these
books, T almost always exclaims, “She looks like me!” before we start reading.
In reality, the girl doesn’t look like Teenasia any more than a picture of a random
white woman would look like me, but Teenasia is so happy to see anyone of her color,
with her hair and her style of features, that she focuses on these
similarities.
While
our family makes an effort to involve the girls in activities that draw a
multicultural crowd—African dance; ethnic festivals; belonging to a diverse
church—some of our interests as a family nevertheless highlight areas where the
color barrier is yet to be broken. On a recent ski trip, for example, Teenasia and
Jamie were the only minorities I saw on the slopes in two days. The same thing was true for the state park
where we camped this summer. While
Disney seems to offer a princess for every occasion, none of them are black,
and only Pocahontas could even be described as light brown—and really, she’s
not even a princess.
But
if having daughters of color has opened (or re-opened) my eyes to some
negatives in terms of how children of color may still be marginalized, being a
mother to T and Jamie has also allowed me to see the beautiful bridges that can
form across cultures and color. I have been privileged to witness both black
people and white people reaching out to my girls with special interest because
of their foster care background. I have been welcomed into the African American
community by black women seeking to teach me about skin and hair care for girls
of color. Countless times, Bill and I have heard people remark on what a
beautiful family we have. No one has ever made us feel we were somehow less
qualified to parent Jamie or T because we were not the same color. And perhaps
the best compliment I’ve ever received came from Marina, an African American
friend who also has a child at St. Monica School. We were on the phone and she
was making a point about the needs and thoughts of other black parents at the
school.
“And
when I say other black parents, you know I’m including you, right?” she
asked.
I smiled.
Black Like Me. Black like my friend
Marina. Black like Teenasia.
I
thank God for preparing me well.
